


the sun also sets

by silverstaineddreams



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Internalized Homophobia, Lams - Freeform, M/M, also, i love crying over dead historical figures!!!, it's sad and there's religion/implied suicide, only for like two seconds but jic, there's one am and idk what this is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-25
Updated: 2016-03-25
Packaged: 2018-05-28 23:16:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6349573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silverstaineddreams/pseuds/silverstaineddreams
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>it started with a whisper. it ended with a bang.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the sun also sets

John had never found comfort in seeking out false notions of security, which is why he had never been one to pray. Yet, as the bullets whizz by him, as the blood rushes down his side, his would-be Catholic lips can’t help but mumble out the first phrases of a verse his mother used to recite to him; 

_now i lay me down to sleep,_

He thinks he can hear the distant call of his name, from one of his comrades. He wonders if maybe they’ll mourn him, if they’ll even remember his purpose. In the grand scheme of things, how pivotal was John Laurens to the revolution? Not pivotal enough to make it through it all, apparently.

_pray the lord my soul to keep;_

The monotonous gray sky overhead is a blur, being tinted with black ink- like the kind that spills over Alexander’s myriad of papers, as he’s hunched over, at work, at peace. How John had loved to watch him, how John wishes he could, one last time.

_if i die, before i wake,_

The promise of death comes creeping over everything John once knew; the gunshots fade into background noise, the screams of anguish from the freshly fallen soldiers are hardly heard by him. What comes next? John doesn’t know whether or not he believes in an afterlife. John doesn’t know if he’d be admitted in, either way.

_pray the lord my soul to take._

The words are empty promises whispering in his ear; he doesn’t mind the thought of death, he really doesn’t. He’d finally be someplace in which he could be free from his father’s bigotry, which seemed to follow him like a shadow. He wouldn’t have to worry about burying his feelings, or wallowing in shame.

Maybe, if he’s allowed, he can wait for Alexander. Maybe they’ll get the chance they never had been granted, when they were both alive. The notion lifts the corners of his lips, and warms his heart- the last _thought_ , the last _action_ that John Laurens will ever take.

When he was younger, his mother used to grab him and his siblings by the arm, and drag them off to Mass in their Sunday best- he never had had a problem with church, back then, they had always been soft spoken and kind-mannered with him.

After she died, however, religion became a duty, became a chore, became something that ultimately was the product of his father’s fervent wish for John to be normal. He loathed it with every inch of his being, but he did it anyways. Not for Henry, never for him. For his mother.

After he met Alexander, John vowed never to do anything that made him unhappy ever again.

(It wasn’t a vow that lasted a very long time, for his self-loathing nature was too deeply rooted in his core, to give up all that easily.)

Meeting him, was like kissing heaven; it was a divine experience, an intense affair laced with _passion_ , and _pain,_ and _love,_ a secret just for the two of them. It was one of the few times that John had ever managed to reach satisfaction.

(Past experience really should have warned him about how things would end up playing out.)

The problem that lay in falling so quickly for such an enigmatically brilliant man, was that John refused to hold him back. He had been taught his entire life that he was a burden, and he knew, deep inside, that what he was doing with Alexander Hamilton was inherently wrong. To others, at least.

(John never really could fathom why everybody always seemed so eager to interfere with a person’s right to love another, but voicing queries like that had led to a galaxy of bruises tattooed along his body, so he had learned to keep the intrusive thoughts to himself.)

Their love was much like the revolution itself; a single spark that grew into a bright flame, and was ultimately extinguished, leaving both parties breathless and desperate for air, and, _oh, he’s running out of air._

The panic still doesn't set in. John doesn't think it ever will. He expected to get shot. He expected to die in this battle.

He welcomed it.

He knew exactly what he was doing, when he walked out into the field. He was aware of the entirety of his surroundings, he had caught the man with the gun in his peripheral vision, and if he had done something about it he would still be alive.

It happened in slow motion.

_Aim. Pull. Fire. Hit._

And here he was, bleeding out in the middle of a war that was almost won.

As his eyes droop closed, he wonders if Alexander will find out about this at all; he wonders how many of their letters will go unsent, how many of his gentle words will never be spoken, how many years they could have spent together, if only he hadn’t grown so, so, weary of the world crumbling beneath his feat.

 _Forgive me, Alexander. We barely missed becoming historic_.

It started with a whisper.

It ended with a bang.

**Author's Note:**

> @ me wtf???
> 
> tumblr: annastrong  
> twitter: @elschuyler


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